


Less than whole

by Granddaughter_Ogg



Category: Darksiders (Video Games)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Body Dysphoria, Body Image, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Love, Making Out, Physical Disability, Sibling Rivalry, will add those as I go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24421972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Granddaughter_Ogg/pseuds/Granddaughter_Ogg
Summary: You thought him to be someone knowing exactly his place in the world. Who takes well-deserved pride in both his actions and his looks. Not too much pride though; a sensible amount.The truth turned out to be...complicated. As it usually is.War gets angsty about his disability.He's also conflicted over whether a hulk with an enormous iron hand really makes for a good boyfriend for someone as dainty and physically vulnerable as you are.Also: his sharpshooting brother is being kind of a dick. This story takes place in a point in time after you've been officially recognised by the pack as both Death and War's girlfriend... but you and Strife still got this tug-of-war of sorts going on, unwilling to admit your mutual attraction.
Relationships: Strife (Darksiders)/Reader, War (Darksiders)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Less than whole

**E** veryone has depths to them. But some people are expressive enough that their presence can be evoked with a well-chosen word. Just one arrow, which plunges right into the very centre of the dartboard of your tender memory, producing an unmistakable „boing!”

For Death, such a word would be _snarky._ For Strife, it’s _mercurial, for_ his spirit seems unable to settle. Only the change in mood is constant.

When it comes to War, the word is _solid_.

As in unswerving. Dependable. Resilient.

These are the terms you have at the back of your tongue whenever you think of the Red Rider.

 _Solid._ That descriptor fits all of him well. His broad, stout physique which cuts a presence wherever he goes, making the bigger enemies nervous and the lesser of them shit their pants. His combat style, forgoing all the frills in favour of murderous efficiency. You’ve seen War kill things - living creatures - a few times now. It was a formidable spectacle. Of course, as a desk-working, mostly peaceful human being you don’t know shit about fighting, but even you can tell. The Big Guy not so much clashes with most of his foes...as he _ploughs_ through them. Grinding bodies into innard jam.

Solid.

That's his personality, too, which looks deceptively simple on the surface. Many would call War „stuffy” or even „boring”. And they would be dead wrong. He saves most of his daily quota of facial expressions for you, that much is true. His speech patterns tend to be a bit sublime. But you’ve learned to enjoy that Shakespearean tilt he puts on his words. 

This guy’s listening to you, and he’s learning. The more you two chat (and War has surprisingly much to say when his more outspoken brothers aren’t around) the less he acts like this supercilious, stone-faced warrior from beyond the edge of the world...and more like an actual boyfriend.

One of your boyfriends.

You’ve always considered War to be that one brother who has his shit together.

The one immune to inhibitions or deep-seated regrets, the kinds of which plague Death. Free from insecurities, forcing Strife to clown around when he'd rather be sulking. You care immensely about both of your twisted, haunted Horsemen. They took you in, no matter how fucked up you might’ve been yourself; held you in this collective, rock-hard firm Nephilim embrace. Sometimes literally.

You loved it there. But War’s straightforwardness felt refreshing. Whenever he wanted something - he’d just reach for it with his hands or with his words. Mostly both. He was perfectly able to take no for an answer - and at the same time, to not feel bad about his cravings. 

A rare thing in a man.

You thought him to be someone knowing exactly his place in the world. Who takes well-deserved pride in both his actions and his looks. Not too much pride though; a sensible amount.

The truth turned out to be...complicated. As it usually is.

*

You were floating mid-air.

Well, not exactly. You were a good meter and a half above the floor; one leg dangling freely, subconsciously grasping for purchase and another coiled around War’s midsection. Both of your hands dug into the firm vastness that was his upper back. Your whole torso leaned into his, and there was a lot to lean into. You kept your eyes closed and took in that beguiling heat, radiating through the cotton of his well-worn T-shirt. Between that, the Red Rider’s musky scent and his hair, covering most of your face with a fluttering, silky curtain – you were lost for this world.

Understandable, since he was kissing you. Vehemently.

Your bodies couldn’t possibly get much closer and yet War attempted just that. One enormous hand pushed you further into his grip, pressing the air out of your lungs. The bones of your ribcage groaned in protest.

„Wait…” You broke contact, choked and gasped, letting go of his nape and trying to wiggle away from this crushing embrace.

„War. I can’t breathe!..”

His eyes flashed wide. The ironclad hold supporting you suddenly lost its power. You yelped - and wrapped both thighs around his waist in order not to slide off this mountain of a man.

That discomposed War even further. His wide silver eyebrows furrowed while he seized you again, this time by your thighs – this time carefully – and put your slightly startled ass on the kitchen table.

„Forgive me”, he breathed, leaning in, his voice low and delectably rough from all the kissing. It made your insides backflip. But then again, he did just almost jellify them. „I got carried away. Are you all right?”

You giggled breathlessly.

It was hard not to melt when asked like this, not under the tender scrutiny of his gaze. War had eyes like two bluish LED lamps. Still somehow managed to convey emotion through them.

„I’m fine”, you ensured, looking up into this picture of worry. „Really! You just kinda...squished the air outta me for a while there.”

War’s lips pursed. „I am sorry.”

„Don’t mention it, Big Guy.” You absentmindedly rubbed your still aching sides. They probably wore a print of ten enormous fingers. This is gonna leave some bruises, especially from his iron hand.

Your head darted up. He was still leaning over you, blush slowly seeping away from his face, that silver hair in glorious disarray. One strand flew across his scrunched forehead and fell over the wide straight unhappy line that was his mouth. Right now War looked like a pouty child, stifling the urge to cry.

His hands - those instruments of delight, the bringers of carnage – pressed into the table on both of your sides.

„I wish I wasn’t like that”, he said softly. „I wish I didn’t hurt you all the time.”

„Hey, as I said, not really a problem!” you chirped. „Besides, there’s not much we can do about it. I mean, you’re a big, strong Nephilim with a badass metal arm. And I’m just...me!”

War stiffened. „Strong”, he said, his voice hollow.

„That was all I used to care about. And this arm, too…” You watched him slowly flex the fingers of the enormous gauntlet as if he’d seen it for the first time. Pointy metal scraped on wood.

You never asked what magic bounds it to the owner’s will. It was an instrument of bloodbath, that’s for sure. Designed to maim and crush and kill, not to give affection in any form.

But all the same - it was his prosthetics. A crutch he needed to move seamlessly through the world. You’d never ask the man you loved to take it off just for your comfort.

War’s stare met yours. He looked so distraught.

„I leave marks on your flesh, don’t I.”

You managed a weak smile. As far as you were concerned, black-and-blue spots on your skin came with the territory.

„Yeah. They remind me of you when you’re away.”

War inhaled with a hiss and dug both of his hands into the wood of the table. It crunched dangerously.

It was so hot, having him overarch you, block the light with those linebacker shoulders. Oozing with warmth, with this robust scent which made you think wanton thoughts...and with worry.

It hurt to see him worried.

„Darling.” You grabbed him by the neck, stretching your whole upper body upwards, hauled his face down to yours and kissed him. Hard.

War’s silver eyelashes fluttered in surprise; they were so long, you could feel them brushing up and down your cheeks. And then he let go and opened to you, soft and wet and ardent. Even though there was no embrace this time. His palms stayed down as if glued to the table.

„ _Ahem_. Guys.”

The Red Rider let go before you did. One moment your tongues were entwined and War’s tantalising smell filled you up to your very hair roots, as you slid your hips closer to the table’s edge in a honest notion of grinding on that dick. The next – it was all over as your giant jerked back and the sun from the kitchen window poured on you mockingly. It wasn’t the only thing that was mocking.

„Strife.” War’s cheeks were flushed with red again, his voice low and guttural. Such a growl should scare the shit out of any living creature, aside from a few exceptions. His cheeky brother was one of them.

„Guys. Guys”, he said with a smile as obnoxious as it was wide. „I love you both, you know that. But the thing is, you’re in the way.”

You panted and snorted, flipping your dishevelled hair in a failed attempt to regain some dignity.

„Between you and fucking what?”

„The fridge, _dahling_.” The spiky-haired one posed himself flamboyantly in the doorway, one hip cocked to the right, arm behind the head jutted in opposite direction, his long spine curved sideways as if he was a JoJo character. As conflicted as you were about this dumbass’ attitude, you had to admire his flexibility.

And his height. Even when wearing only boxers, some old wifebeater (which read ELMO on the front) and no shoes - he still remained the tallest.

„How long have you been standing there?” you spat.

„Long enough.” Another megawatt grin.

War emitted a low, threatening sound of a remarkably beastly disposition.

„Hey, don’t come at me, brother.” Strife raised one hand protectively. „I’ve been wrestling with my thoughts here, ya know? Wondering whether it is decent to break up such a lovely scene, and then you two started _arguing_ or something and it was all the more awkward, but then I really, really need to get that milk.”

You taxed the sharpshooter with a keen gaze. Unkempt hair, deep shadows under his golden eyes, a pinched look which his uneven snarky grin didn’t quite cover. An air of general dishevelment.

What time was it, again? Ah, yes. Saturday morning. The day of the Reckoning.

„Hangover is a harsh mistress, huh?” You flung the fridge door open and grabbed the milk.

„Work hard, party hard. That’s my motto.” He stepped inside, took it from you, uncorked the jug, threw his head back and drank like a man who’d just traversed Sahara.

It took a while. You remained silent. War, who has crossed his arms - was dead silent, too. Strife slurped and gurgled.

After a minute or two of this, you started to wonder about the crazy-ass direction which your life has taken. You shared a common roof with four Nephilim, out of which two were your lovers, one was a good friend, and another one was...well, Strife.

To the best of his Strife-ability.

„Can’t you just take it and beat it?” you asked wearily. Whatever magic has weaved between you and War, it was as good as gone anyway.

„No need. I’ll go.” The Big Guy sighed, pushed himself away from the table and trod past his boxer-clad brother, who courteously stepped aside.

„War?...” Your voice might’ve trembled. Just a little.

„I’ll be upstairs. I need a bath.”

And like that – he was gone.

Well, not exactly. You and the pointy-haired one stood there in silence for quite some time, listening to the thud of War’s heavy footsteps.

You waited until they trailed off, snapped your head at Strife and spit out: „There is a word for what you’ve just done to your brother. And that word is...”

„ _Cockblocking_ , I know”, he cut you off leisurely while wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. „ You humans are so crafty. So skilled with your words.”

You inhaled sharply.

„We’re also skilled in the art of kicking someone in the shins, so don’t be surprised when it happens.”

„Hey”, Strife bent down and now his gleaming, taunting stare was definitely too close to your face. You felt as if attached to an electric current.

„Don’t go taking the strain in your relationships on me”, he said. „That’s so not cute.”

„Ugh! One day I’m just gonna kill you.”

He straightened back to his impressive length and flashed you a lovable smirk. „I’d love to see you try.”

„I mean it! I’ll find some way to make you miserable.”

Strife was already on his way out, gracefully placing the emptied milk bottle on the kitchen counter. „Anytime, princess.”

He strutted out, giving his boxer-clad ass slightly more wiggle that seemed necessary. You couldn’t unglue your eyes from it. „But seriously. Lookin’ forward to it!”


End file.
